"'T was this way," she said to Eliza Jane Smith, "the boarders, an' all the life of the summer, had onsettled Maud Grace considerable. She wanted company all the time. She sort o' turned t' Janet, an', like as not, that mornin' she went t' the Light t' see her. Not findin' her, an' seein' the _Comrade_ at the dock an' John Jones's boat puttin' back t' the Station, like Davy said he had done, Maud Grace just fixed it in her mind that Janet was with John Jones, an' so she took the _Comrade_ an' went after them. Then when the wind came up, she lost her head, an' so--" Mrs. Jo G. at this juncture hid her face in her checked apron and silently rocked back and forth. She could not think of the night and storm, the lonely, frightened girl dashed hither and yon in the little boat, without breaking down. Life near the dunes was stern and the people had learned to accept calmly the storm and danger, but, just at first, it was always hard. Mark Tapkins divided his time between his home and the Light, but no longer did he raise his eyes to Janet. Mark had got his bearings at last, and was steering his lonely way through sullen and bitter waters. Trouble had set a strange dignity upon him. Davy, seeing others downcast, rose to tuneful heights. Not only the landings, but the house, the long flight of steps, and the windswept balcony and shining Light knew his cheerful songs. "Singin' 's a might clarifyin' exercise," he said to Janet; "it opens the body an' soul, so t' speak, an' lets more'n the tune an' words out. The angels sing in glory, an' I mind how 't is said the mornin' stars sang together. So long as I've got a voice, I'm goin' t' sing, an' drown the sound of worse things." So Davy sang and guided many a sad thought into safer channels. Over at the Station the crew patiently went through their routine. The short dark days passed with the monotony that was second nature to the brave fellows. Perhaps their greatest courage was displayed in their homely, detached lives. They cooked; they slept; they drilled and patrolled the beach. They talked little to each other; but they were ready for near and far-off duty, should a signal be displayed. Small wages repaid them for their faithful endurance; they were not permitted to add to their income by other labor, and they knew that when age or weakness overtook them the government they served as faithfully as any soldier could, would discard them for younger or stronger men. Nevertheless they bore their part uncomplainingly through deadly loneliness or tragic danger. "It looks like it was goin' t' be a hard winter, settin' in so early an' so persistent," said Billy one day. Billy took more heed of the weather than did the others. The patrols tired him more now than they ever had before. "Like as not!" agreed Jared Brown; "I saw a skim of porridge ice, this side the bar, as I turned in this mornin'." Billy nodded. "Janet comin' on this winter?"